


Chicken Soup for the Secret Agent's Soul

by fangirlSevera



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, New Relationship, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:36:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlSevera/pseuds/fangirlSevera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson never gets sick. He does, however, get insecure and worries when Clint cancels a date and doesn't call or text him for a full day.</p><p>Clint does occasionally get sick, and he' s just not used to having someone who wants to be around him even when he's riddled with germs and leaking from his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Soup for the Secret Agent's Soul

**Author's Note:**

> A week after New Year's I got a cold. Working in a library is much like working in a school with regards to the spread of germs. To at least make myself mentally feel better during my illness, I entertained myself with thoughts of how my OTP would handle one or the other getting a cold. This is what I came up with.

Phil hums to himself softly as he catches up with paperwork. His eyes periodically flick to the clock in the corner of the screen. Both actions are mostly unconscious and habits he had picked up only recently. 

He had been called-out on the humming only last week at a meeting with Director Hill. “Stop that.” She had interrupted herself while going over a reorganization chart. “Why are you doing that?”

“He’s happy.” Nick had smirked knowingly.

Hill’s nose had scrunched. “I don’t want to know then.”

“You really don’t.”

Phil had kicked him in the shin under the table.

Phil's phone rattles against his desktop with an incoming text. His humming stops immediately when he reads it.

_Have to cancel tonight. Sorry, something's come up. :(_

Phil is, naturally, disappointed, but keeps himself from being upset. They both understand that given their professions and lifestyles, evenings couldn't always go as planned.

 _Anything I can help with?_ Phil texts back.

_Nah. It’s good. TTYL_

Phil sends back an acknowledgement and sets his phone down. He turns back to his reports and doesn’t look at the clock again until Melinda May unceremoniously comes through his office door and informs him it is well past a reasonable dinner time and she knows he had not eaten.

He sighs and leaves for the night under her firm gaze. He sends a text to Nick: _Don’t send my underlings to do your dirty work._

_I’d love to hear you call May your underling to her face._

Phil does not hear from Clint again the rest of the night. He still has not heard from by noon the next day. Phil tries not to worry. He wonders if he should be the one to try and initiate contact again. But he doesn’t want to come off as needy so, he tries not to give into the urge to call or text Clint to make sure everything's alright. After all, he has the psych reports that confirm the rumors that Clint Barton is something of a commitment-phobe. So Phil’s cautious when it comes to looking like he’s being too pushy.

At the same time, old insecurities raise their heads and he can’t help but fear that Clint is having second thoughts. But they've only had three dates, surely it's too soon for Clint to be spooked already.

“Sir?” 

He blinks and Simmons has ended her explanation about how the new tranquilizer rounds work. Her grin is wide and eager, like always, but tinged with concern at the edges.

“Sounds excellent,” he tells her. “Good work.”

As he walks out of the lab he hears Fitz, not softly enough, tell her, “I don’t think he was paying attention.”

“It’s alright. As long as the trigger works and bad guys go down, he’ll be happy.”

She was too accurate for Phil to be bothered by the assumption.

He waits after lunch to call Clint’s phone. It rings, but ultimately goes to voicemail. “Hi, Clint. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.” Phil pauses, trying to decide what was the least clingy-sounding thing he could say next. That he misses him? It’s been less than twenty-four hours, and they’re not sixteen. That he hopes to replan from last night? Presumptive perhaps. Just end it with a “call me back?” Not exactly a message from someone you’re supposedly intimate with. “I look forward to seeing you again soon,” he ends up saying. It’s a sincere statement of fact about his own feelings without placing any concrete demands on Clint. “Bye now!” He cringes as he hangs up. 

An hour passes. Still no contact from Clint. He checks newsfeeds, then opens police scanners from the Bed-Stuy area. The lack of relevant information eases Phil’s anxiety somewhat. He taps his fingers against his keyboard, without typing, before deciding to access files on current Avengers-related activity being covered by SHIELD. It takes only thirty seconds for his e-mail to ping with a high alert message.

_If you’re accessing Avengers files for personal reasons, I will knock your security clearance down to the same level as Fitz’s monkey!_

_-Maria Hill, Director_

Phil closes the database.

He debates with himself before he sends Clint a new text. _I don’t want to be out of line, but if I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’m coming over to check on you. K?_

The hour comes and goes. Phil logs off his computer and locks his office.

The weather is intolerable. The cold winds bite in a way they only do in January. The snow, once white, glistening and welcome during the December holidays is now a dirty slush, immovable until the too distant thaw. Phil stands outside in it anyway, his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets as he tilts his head up, scrutinizing the apartment building looming over him. It looks as good as it ever can, no sign of fires or other damage that could mean recent trouble.

He climbs the stairs to Clint’s floor. He doesn’t run into anyone on his way. Understandably, people have tucked themselves into their homes, keeping warm, and venturing out for no reason other than necessities. He reaches Clint’s door and knocks. Barking comes from within. Lucky doesn’t sound distressed, at least. Just a dog’s natural reaction to a knock. 

Phil waits.

No one comes to the door. 

He tries again. And waits. Right, well. Better to beg forgiveness Phil figures as he removes his lock pick kit from his jacket pocket and goes to one knee, getting at the first lock. Three more locks later, Phil slowly opens the door.

Lucky is right there. He barks happily and jumps at Phil. “Hey boy,” Phil greets, rubbing his head. Lucky licks his face then runs across the room to the sofa. He jumps up on a pile of blankets that’s piled there. 

The pile moves and groans. “Aw, dog, no.” Clint’s voice sounds wrong, scratchy, slow. 

Phil comes closer. In front of the sofa, the coffee table is littered with balls of tissue and plastic water bottles. There’s also a bottle of orange medicine and a mostly empty coffee pot. The blankets move again, slowly sitting up. Beneath the layers, Phil can only see a pair of blue eyes, half-open and blinking. “Phil? What are you doing here?” Clint asks, clearly with some difficulty, and starts coughing.

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

“What? Sorry. My aids…”

And then Phil notices them, sitting on a clean saucer. Which… Clint doesn’t own a tea set… Phil clears a space on the coffee table, glad to still be wearing his gloves, and sits down. He asks Clint where his phone is, using the sign language he had been learning before they started dating. 

The eyes squint. “Uhm… Kitchen?” 

Phil gets up and finds the phone sitting in a dusting of coffee grounds. He brings it back to the sofa. A pale hand comes out from between the blankets and takes it. Clint takes a moment to read through his missed texts and sees the number of missed calls. “Shit.” Clint sniffs loudly. “What day is it?”

Phil touches his pinky and thumb together, leaving three fingers up as he rotates his arm. Clint swears again. “Hand me my ears?” Clint asks, voice rough after another coughing spell. Phil hands over the saucer and Clint pulls one blanket off his head to put his aids in. His hair is sticking-up haphazardly, looking a bit greasy. His face is pale except for his nose which is red, and the dark smudges under his eyes. His shadow has gone well past five o’clock.

“Why didn’t you tell me you just had a cold?” Phil asks once Clint has both hearing aids in place. 

Clint sniffs again. “Because I knew you’d come over. And I didn’t want you seeing me like this,” he grumps.

“Seeing you like what?”

“All gross and stuff. It’s too early in our relationship for you to me seeing me less than my best.”

Phil had to laugh. "I've seen you with half your face bruised and swollen, teeth missing and blood running down your chin. I think we’re well past the point of caring about losing the mystique."

Clint grins, that adorable, self-deprecating smile that Phil loves, but simultaneously wants to kiss away. An errant line of liquid coming from Clint’s left nostril tampers the impulse, though. He hands Clint the box of tissue (which is running low). 

“Thanks.” Clint blows his nose then collapses back onto the couch. Lucky jumps up on the cushion next to him, snuggling close to his ailing human. “Seriously, though, Phil. I’ll be fine in a day or two. No need for you to risk contamination.”

Phil presses his lips together and assesses the situation: Clint curled up on a sofa, and not his bed, the litter on the coffee table. “Don’t worry,” he tells Clint, heading towards the kitchen to confirm a suspicion. “I never get sick. Nick says I should be tested for the X-Gene with how good my immune system works.” He opens the fridge. There’s half a loaf of bread in there, a swallow of milk left in the jug, and a block of cheese. He checks the cupboards next. There’s plenty of aspirin, but not much else in terms of over the counter drugs. The only canned good is an expired fruit cocktail. 

Phil sighs and mentally starts compiling a list.He grabs the waste bin from the kitchen and carries it back to the coffee table. He starts brushing all the used tissues into it as he informs Clint, “I’m going to go back to my place to change. Then I’m coming back here with some supplies.”

“You really don’t gotta,” Clint protests, head pillowed against Lucky’s side.

Phil gives him a look that has silenced the most insubordinate of soldiers. “Your cold will not last only a day or two in these conditions. When is the last time you ate?”

“I had a granola bar.” Clint points to the wrapper Phil’s tossing into the trash. 

He sets the tissue box within Clint’s reach and leaves the bin by the sofa. He takes one of the water bottles and refills it, also putting it close to Clint who is already fading from consciousness. Phil touches Clint’s forehead (it’s not hot, thank goodness). “I’ll be back in an hour, tops, okay?”

Clint only grumbles wordlessly and burrows further into his blankets and dog.

Phil takes Clint’s keys from the kitchen counter and leaves, locking the door behind him. He goes home first and ditches the suit. He changes into his comfiest pair of jeans and a gray sweatshirt with a faded Air Jordan logo on the chest. He spends some time at a pharmacy next, filling up a blue basket. His last stop is a deli near Clint’s place, not wanting anything to go cold too soon.

He lets himself in after a cursory knock. Clint is sitting up now, still wrapped in blankets. His TV is on, but he stares at the images without any interest. He smiles at Phil, lighting up as he takes in his casual wear. It makes Phil blush a little. He distracts himself from Clint’s gaze by unloading his bags. 

“Chicken and vegetable soup,” he explains, setting down the warm styrofoam cup. “And a sandwich.” He takes the plastic spoon from the bag and a small pile of napkins and shoves them all at Clint. 

Clint blinks at the food. “Oh. Uhm, how much do I owe-”

“Stop.” Phil cuts him off. “Don’t even think about it. Because I’m not.”

Clint opens the soup and lets the steam envelope his face. He looks at the other bag in Phil’s hand. “But-”

“If it makes you feel better, you can pay for our next date.”

“...Is this a date?”

“No. This is me taking care of you. Because I want to. And maybe need to.” Phil shrugs and avoids Clint’s eyes as he unpacks the pharmacy bag. There’s Nyquil to compliment the daytime stuff Clint already has, a three pack of Kleenex (Puffs and with lotion because the skin under Clint’s nose looks painfully raw), a few cans of more soup for later meals, a bag of Halls that’s good for both stuffy noses and sore throats, and a large can of Lysol spray. 

He glances back up at Clint who has the sandwich halfway to his mouth and looking at Phil with fondness and an admiration that makes Phil’s heart clench and surge at the same time. Caught staring, Clint clears his throat and continues eating his sandwich.

Phil comes around the table. Lucky, sometimes far too observant in a way that makes Phil uncomfortable, shifts over, making a space for Phil to sit next to Clint. “Uck, no! germs!” Clint protests as Phil takes a seat.

“Never sick,” he reminds Clint.

“First time for everything,” Clint mutters into his spoonful of soup.

Phil nudges Clint’s shoulder. The blankets are now pooled around his waist when Clint needed his hands to eats. The T-shirt he’s wearing underneath is starting to get dark patches under his arms. “When’s the last time you showered?”

“Rude!” But Clint was chuckling. “Seems like too much work right now.”

“I think a hot shower and fresh clothes would make you feel worlds better.”

“Says the man who’s never had a cold.”

Phil raises his brows. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Clint sighs. “No.” 

“Is it okay if I go to your bedroom and find something for you to wear to bed?”

“Phil, I’ve been wanting you in my bedroom for _months_. Just...under different circumstances.” He sneezes.

Phil pats Clint’s knee and gives it a squeeze before standing again. Lucky immediately moves back to the warm spot he left. Phil takes the Nyquil, a Kleenex box, and a bottle of water with him, leaving them on the nightstand. He looks at the bed, rumpled and unmade, and has to agree with Clint about how unfortunate _this_ is the first time he gets to see it. But they aren’t going to get there until Clint feels better. He finds a pair of sweatpants with holes in the knees and a purple henley with a stretched-out collar. They smell a little dusty, but otherwise clean. He opens a drawer with underwear and grabs a pair of boxers, closing the drawer again quickly.

He sets the clothes on the sink in the bathroom and goes back to the living room. With a groan, Clint stands, stretching his arms high above him, the blankets slipping down onto the floor. He shuffles over to Phil and drops his forehead to Phil’s shoulder. Phil puts an arm around him, and they stand there for a moment, Phil swaying them gently. 

Clint lets out a long breath. “Okay. I can do this. I suppose you’ll refuse to leave until I do.”

Phil’s gentle movements stop. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I’ll just go to bed right after…”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ve been leaking all over the couch, though. And-”

“Huge can of Lysol, remember?”

Clint makes a noise that’s close to a whimper. “You’re too good for me.”

“Not at all. No such thing as ‘too good’ when it comes to you.”

Clint make that sound again. “Imma shower,” he mutters, removing himself from Phil’s space.

Phil waits until he hears the shower running then starts disinfecting the furniture. Lucky is not pleased to be shoved from the pile of blankets. He’s even more displeased by the smell of the spray, sneezing at it.

Clint had finished the soup, but only ate half the sandwich. Phil suddenly remembers he hasn’t had anything since lunch himself. He finishes the sandwich, uncaring of where Clint had already bit into it.

Once done with his shower, Phil helps Clint into bed. “You’re the best nurse I’ve ever had,” Clint tells him, taking the small cup of Nyquil. “Wish you had the uniform, though.”

“I reserve that for after the fifth date. This is only four.”

Clint lays back, his pillows propped up to help his breathing. “Please don’t be joking.” 

Phil shakes his head, and reminds Clint to takes his aids out again. He softy swipes a hand through Clint’s hair as he drifts off. Phil finishes tidying up the apartment before trying to make himself comfortable on the sofa (his slept in far less comfortable and more hostile conditions).

Phil wakes up the next morning with his throat feeling a little scratchy and a sneezing fit. Clint, groggy, but with proper color returning to his face, sits down next to him. He holds out the bag of Halls, frowning. “Aw, cold, no…”


End file.
